


Carmine

by arcjet



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drug Use, F/M, Recreational Drug Use, art heist, it's not about the heist but the friends you make along the way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 15:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17490698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcjet/pseuds/arcjet
Summary: When nine million-dollar paintings go missing overnight, gallery owner Arthur Maxson tries to prevent a publicity nightmare by finding the thieves and the art before the auction goes live.





	Carmine

**Author's Note:**

> This is the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written. I've watched too many heist movies and played too much Red Dead and it shows! Hopefully this fun little piece will keep me motivated for my other stories too. Thanks for reading!

**the night before**

It was a ritzy night that Arthur Maxson had experienced far too many times, boredly dragging his gaze across the lavish room, filled with mingling bodies and vibrant music. Nine blood-red paintings stood proudly on display, each taller and wider than Arthur himself, on the sweeping gallery wall facing him, thousands of painted yellow eyeballs peering down upon the fervent crowd with him.

He didn’t quite understand the art, though he rarely does - he is a dealer, not a curator or creator or collector, and he is concerned solely with monetary transactions. Maxson was a well-known name in the art world, but the more appreciative side had been bred out since Roger Maxson first opened his gallery next to Central Park in 1822, leaving just a well-bred talent for curating value far past raw materials in the 21 year-old Arthur. Whatever flighty metaphor the gruesome depictions hold for the tortured soul within Pickman, Arthur saw only a crisp cheque.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

A slender burgundy coat sidled up next to him, resting her forearms on the bar Arthur was leaning back against, signaling something to the bartender.

Arthur barely cast a glance towards the reporter. “It’s a bit more than a penny with you, Piper.”

He finished the drink he has been sipping on in one fell swoop, before turning the glass upside down over the recorder she had placed between them. She rolled her eyes, removing her device before any leftover droplets can tamper with it, tucking it deep into her coat. It was an old game they played.

“But worth it,” she winked, promptly receiving two vodka sodas. She pushed one against his chest, condensation seeping into his pressed shirt. “How much have these gross paintings gone up in value since a certain online blog  _ virally _ speculated that they might be painted in the artist’s own blood?”

“Bout one-fifty,” Arthur replied.

The journalist raised an eyebrow. “Hundred?”

“Hundred thousand.”

He took a sip from his fresh drink to hide his smirk as Piper’s jaw fell open. 

“And how much of that will I be getting?” She demanded, putting a hand on her hip, shaking her head in disbelief. “Some asshole shits on a canvas and when people think its blood, the value of that thought alone is more than my entire salary in a year. Rich people can literally just  _ think _ money out of thin air.”

“Maybe if most of your salary didn’t come from tabloid bullshit—”

“Hey, Arthur Maxson Girlfriend Tracker gets more hits per month than all of my other articles -  _ combined,  _ Arthur!  _ Combined! _ ” The journalist called out, her eyes suddenly connecting with a plate of coconut shrimp, walking backwards away from him before turning on her heels and following the waiter down the stairs, and leaving Arthur alone at the bar.

Having finished his drink, he promptly ordered another, before the slight feeling that someone was watching him fell over him. 

When the bartender ducked away to grab more lime wedges, his eyes immediately fell on a dark-haired girl sitting across from him, her equally dark eyes boring directly into his. 

“Actually,” Arthur said, flicking his eyes away from her and focusing on the bartender, who had just popped back up again, limes in hand. He was suddenly craving something with a bit more bite, to quell the sudden itch in his throat. “I’ll have a whiskey on ice. Send this over there.”

He nodded behind the bartender. The girl smirked, turning away partially so her profile faced him, red lips wrapped around her wine glass. She wore no jewelry, and her dress was a simple black, draped elegantly off her shoulders. A rare find for the functions Arthur generally found himself at, where men and women alike tried to top each other in impracticality, in the name of art or whatever. It was more common to see tuxedos made of plastic wrap than a simple, elegant dress, which matched his own crisp white shirt and pressed black jacket. He appreciated it greatly. 

A cursory glance back at her left him swearing under his breath. She was gone, as fast as she had been revealed to him, leaving just an empty wine glass in her wake. As soon as the ice clinked into his glass, he strode off quickly, walking the length of the bar, catching a glimpse of a black skirt flitting around the corner like the tail of a black cat up the stairs to the smoking balcony. When he reached the top of the stairs, the heavy glass door had just swung shut with a threatening thud, a chilly gust of wind popping out. 

As he stepped out into the wintry December air, he almost didn’t catch sight of her - the balcony was grossly backlit with the bright lights from inside, and he only saw a few other men milling around, smoking bitter cigars; her slinky black dress had disappeared in the night. Only a flash of red and the smooth pale of her neck turning from further down the railing alerted him to her presence, before she had turned away again, dark hair concealing her in the dim light, slender hands wrapped around his drink. Arthur vaguely realized it was cold, but he didn’t feel any of it as he approached her.

“You know,” he said, stepping up behind her. “People usually say thank you when they receive gifts.”

He wanted desperately for her to turn around, wanted to see those red lips stretch out into a smile, but he had to settle for hearing the smirk in her voice as she replied, “You know, gifts are usually wanted.”

A delicate hand raised the glass, swirling its full contents around. Ice clinking like a wind chime in the air. 

“My mistake,” he admitted. “Don’t like vodka?”

She placed the glass on the wide railing, sliding it away from her slightly. An invitation. He stepped into the space next to her which had been reserved by the glass. She was taller than he expected, but still a good head shorter than him, and her limbs moved with the grace of an old movie star. Her whole appearance was almost old-world; from the short tendrils of hair that had fallen out of a rather clumsy bun piled behind her head to her strong brows and high cheekbones. 

“Ha,” she mumbled. “Quite the opposite. Maybe a bit too much, tonight.”

“The open bar is pretty dangerous,” he agreed, casting a glance down at her. She was resting her cheek on one of her elegant hands, slender fingers coming out through her hair, looking up at him. Eyes almost glassy, cheeks flushed. “Do you come to...these often?”

He trailed off when trying to describe what  _ these  _ were, suddenly at a loss at how to describe probably sixty percent of his entire life. Piper would probably just call it rich people bullshit. 

“What, pretentious art parties?” She snorted, suddenly patting down her dress erratically. “Not in a while. You?”

She was either lying, more wasted than she seemed, or it must’ve been a real while, because Arthur would’ve been present at any worth noting for at least the past four years, and she didn’t look many years older than him, if any.

Her punctuated question also alluded to lies - how could she not know him? Still, she let it hang in the cold air expectantly.

“Unfortunately,” he said. “What’s your name?”

His question collided with her blurting out, “Do you have a light?”

They made eye contact unexpectedly, and she broke it first, giggling, but extending her free hand. “Nora.” 

An old world name which suited her old world face. 

“Do you have a last name?”

“Mm, no.”

Her coy words contrasted with her lashes fluttered slightly when he grasped her hand, but she quickly busied herself with selecting a slightly crooked cigarette from a pack she had drawn from deep within the fabric of her dress. In turn, he pulled out a lighter from his inner jacket pocket, alongside a thick cigar for himself, and went to light her vice, but the delicate flame kept disappearing in the chilly wind. After a few failed tries, Nora took the lighter from his hands, and he fully shielded it, their victory marked in the elegant crackle of her long, deep drags.

“Thanks. _.. _ ” she said, raising an eyebrow as she trailed off, unsure how to finish.

“Arthur,” he granted. The flash of his cigar had alerted an idle waiter holding a tray of matches and cutters to beeline towards them. 

“Do you have a last name?” She asked mockingly, raising the cigarette to her lips, still bright red, seemingly impervious. 

The waiter arrived just in time, offering a polite, “Mr. Maxson” as a greeting. Arthur tried his hardest not to look too satisfied as Nora’s eyes widened, instead busying himself with cutting his cigar while the waiter lit a long match. Her gaze, suddenly alert, darted back and forth between the man before her and the neon signs plastered all over the gallery’s exterior walls, declaring it his. 

When the waiter had disappeared, leaving them alone again in their corner of the balcony again, she finally said, “How long were you going to sit on  _ that _ ?”

“Do you often go to parties where you don’t know the gracious host?” Arthur asked innocently. 

She looked speechless momentarily, before quickly regaining her composure, straightening oddly formally. “I suppose the jig is up,” she smirked. “I’m just a lowly plus-one. Sorry for wasting your time.”

She made a move to leave, but Arthur reached out, managing to close his fingers around her wrist. “You don’t have to go,” he said, genuinely. Then, perhaps more for himself than her, “Who brought you?”

“Haylen,” she answered, tentatively. So she  _ was _ young; Haylen was one of the gallery assistant interns. Flicking a glance back towards the glass doors, she added, “I’m actually kinda out of my depth in there.”

He dragged her closer until he could feel the silky fabric of her dress against his legs. “Then stay out here.”

Surprisingly, Nora broke out into another drunken giggle, shaking her head. “Sorry,” she whispered. “It’s just - I’m really not your type.”

The words sounded misspoken. Arthur paid it little attention, taking his grip off her wrist and bringing his hand up beneath her chin, tilting her head upwards. She swayed dangerously before him at the sudden loss of support, two hands pressing against his chest, looking up at him through a thick line of lashes. Her fingers were cold, almost icy, but he felt his skin burn, blood warmed by alcohol, when she licked her lips nervously, leaving a tempting glossy shine. 

He absolutely needed her.

The thud of the glass door jerked her face away from his as he leaned down, and she dropped her hands from his chest, peering at the noise. Shift change. A fresh waiter replaced the current one with a curt nod of his head.

Annoyance must’ve been present in Arthur’s face, because she smiled at him apologetically. Deftly, she picked up his lighter, still lying on the railing, and stuffed it into her crinkled cigarette pack, sliding the whole thing into the inner pocket of his jacket, patting it delicately.

“I need to be excused. Just to the ladies’ room,” she added hastily, when Arthur opened his mouth to protest. “But keep those safe for me while I’m gone?”

“Of course,” Arthur said, hoping he didn’t sound as eager as he felt. She grinned, and quickly popped up to kiss his cheek, and was gone through the doors before the burn from her lips set into his skin. 

—  


An hour and one cigar later, Arthur finally re-emerged to the gallery’s interiors, where the party was now in full force. His disappointment had faded about two drinks into the four he had managed to down while standing alone on the balcony, and had been successfully replaced with more primal motivations.

“Night going well, Arthur?” A deep voice asked. The young man whipped around gracelessly, face breaking out into a boyish grin at the sight of the gallery’s head of security.

“It’s about to,” Arthur replied. 

Danse sighed. “Make good choices, sir.”

“Always do.”

He was drawn to the main gallery floor, which had considerably more energy than when he had went outside. A nearby clock stated it was nearing midnight, so all the stuffy, older industry fellows had probably already left, leaving the environment a fair bit more wild. The entire room glowed red, reflecting off the paintings and back into the buzzing crowd. He basked in it, his slightly wounded ego suddenly prioritizing the color above all else. 

Luckily, he had plenty of other distractions. As soon as his polished shoes touched the gallery floor, he was greeted by another familiar face.

“Arthur, boss man!” Rhys shouted over the music. “Let me get you a drink!”

“Is it your night off?” Arthur asked, surprised. Rhys nodded eagerly, making another drink motion, guiding the younger man through the crowd to a table, where three girls were already sitting, sipping champagne.

Vaguely, he heard Rhys introducing their names, which he forgot promptly. Somehow, a glass of champagne was in his hand, and he sipped it, drawn to the girl who looked most disinterested in Rhys’s ramblings. The other two were typical artistic fanfare - Pickman fangirls, one had red body paint going from her neck down her chest and arms, dripping like blood, and the other had black tears drawn around her eyes, identical to one of the paintings glaring down at them from the wall. 

The one in the middle, however, wore just a scowl and latex red dress. The wrong shade and look he had burned in the back of his mind, but he found his gaze continuously going back to her; it obviously satisfied whatever yearning remained from the balcony, which felt hours ago.

Suddenly, he found himself at the bar again, just him and the plasticky red dress. She was ordering rounds after rounds of whiskey, downing shots like water, cheeks flushing pink as she howled laughter at whatever the hell was coming out of his mouth - he didn’t care. Other entities were in control at this point. 

When Arthur went to rest his hand on her thigh, muscular and lithe, they suddenly transported to his room - his penthouse was perched on the top floor of the gallery - kissing hard against a wall. He had a solid grip on her thigh, and he dragged his fingers, still gripping hard, all the way up to her waist. 

They broke apart momentarily, and she remarked, “This place looks like a fucking modern art museum,” before tearing away at his clothes. Faintly, he registered an accent, but before he could blink and ask her where she was from, they had made it into his bed, and the latex red dress was on the floor, and the girl that had been contained within it was on top, bouncing hard and rhythmic against his hips.

He had something he needed to say, but the words weren’t forming in his brain anymore. If they were, they left his mouth as just grunts and groans each time her wet pussy slid down on him. 

“Fuck, wait,” he tried weakly. The words came out as breaths of air. Frustrated, he shoved her off, and she let out a garbled yelp as her back landed against the bed with a soft thud, Arthur climbing over her, one hand jerking his dick gracelessly as he spilt himself over her pale, toned stomach. 

“You fucking arsehole,” the girl muttered, as he collapsed in a heap beside her. 

 

—

He woke up alone. 

The alarm clock next to his bed read six in the morning, and the pounding in his head seemed to grow harsher and heavier as he blinked, looking around his empty room. Vaguely, he realized the pounding in his head was real; someone was knocking rapidly at his door. Groaning, he pulled on the nearest pair of sweatpants he could find, before swinging open his door and revealing Danse, looking worried.

Arthur couldn’t quite find it within his hangover to greet him, but Danse seemed nervous to speak. And Danse was very rarely nervous. So he raised his eyebrows, waiting for an explanation.

Danse took a deep, almost shaky breath before speaking. “Sir, there’s really no delicate way to put this.” 

“Get to the point.”

The guard shuffled his feet, shaking his head in confusion. “We don’t know how it happened. We had already prepared the auction hall, went to the gallery to get the Pickman paintings ready. But - they’re...gone, sir.”

“What do you fucking mean,” Arthur said slowly, “They’re  _ gone _ .”


End file.
